


Pas de Deux: Fifth

by astrid_fischer



Series: pas de deux [5]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, M/M, Modern Era, ballet!au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-22
Updated: 2013-02-22
Packaged: 2017-12-03 05:47:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,358
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/694841
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/astrid_fischer/pseuds/astrid_fischer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Enjolras shows up at Grantaire's studio, this time, and chiaroscuro has a practical application.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pas de Deux: Fifth

Grantaire is hunched over a roll of paper draped across his drafting desk while he shades in charcoal, the soft black all over his fingers and arms and smudged on one cheek without his noticing.

Grantaire likes the charcoal, likes the feel of it in his hands and the smoothness of it on paper, but he’s struggling with it all the same.

His professor—a woman in her forties with grey hair perpetually pulled back in a tight knot, tattoos in other languages snaking up her arms, and a ruthless sarcastic streak which she very much enjoys turning on her students, all of which mean Grantaire is half in love with her—had returned his last assignment to him ungraded.

It was gesture drawing of a woman looking away, and his professor had stuck a pink Post-it stuck to the top corner. She’d written just one word, “chiaroscuro,” and Grantaire didn’t know the word but he knows enough Italian to figure out that she was telling him he needs more shading in his compositions.

_Light doesn’t mean anything without dark_ , she’d told him, when he’d gone in to protest about his artistic vision. _Shadows give depth._

The next thing he’d turned in had been a landscape so dark the trees were barely distinguishable from the skyline. She’d told him to stop being a stubborn jackass and redo the assignment by Friday unless he wanted an incomplete.

Feuilly’s ancient radio is playing 80s pop faintly in the background, even though Feuilly himself left for lunch twenty minutes ago. Grantaire had begged off because he wasn’t hungry.

There are three empty Red Bull cans by his wastebasket, which would probably be beers if _some_ people didn’t insist that it’s irresponsible to drink alcohol before one o’clock. Feuilly’s taken to checking his workspace for hidden bottles.

It makes Grantaire angry, because he’s not a child and he’s already edgy enough from trying to quit smoking without having the alcohol police on his back.

But (and he would never, ever admit it under pain of death) it makes him quietly pleased, too, because it means they care enough to bother the hell out of him.

Grantaire bears down hard with the charcoal, marking the curve of a cheek, the line of a jaw, and this isn’t for the assignment, this is just for practice, so it doesn’t matter that this is the eighteenth time he’s tried to draw a boy he’s only spoken to once and can’t possibly do justice to anyway.

“Grantaire, right?” comes a voice from the doorway, and Grantaire’s hand jerks and a charcoal line stutters across the drawing in progress.

He turns around so quickly he nearly falls off his stool.

For a minute he thinks he must be hallucinating, but no, Enjolras really is standing there, as if summoned by pure power of thought, in the middle of the shared studio space assigned to senior art majors.

He’s wearing black jeans and a white t-shirt, blonde hair curling damp around his neck. He looks like he’s just gotten out of the shower and for the sake of his own sanity Grantaire tries not to dwell too long on that particular mental image.

Enjolras’ eyes go to the desk behind him, which, Grantaire realizes a horrified second too late, is still occupied by the roll of paper covered with charcoal-rendered likenesses of Enjolras’ own face and hands and shoulders.

He stands up hastily to block it, more out of instinct than because he thinks it’ll do any good.

“I recognize that, objectively, this could look really fucking creepy,” Grantaire starts.

“But?” Enjolras raises one eyebrow, lips quirking.

“Oh, there’s no but. I’ll probably be featured on one of those stalker shows. I’m frankly surprised you haven’t run already.”

Grantaire doesn’t know what to do with Enjolras in his space. Enjolras doesn’t fit into it, elegant and blonde in the middle of the chaotic mess of pinned-up posters and band adverts and multicolored fabric draped over most surfaces to protect from paint and the plastic dinosaurs Feuilly’s got lined up next to his brushes.

“Your friends paid me a visit on Saturday,” Enjolras says after a moment, as if Grantaire didn’t know, as if Enjolras hadn’t caught him trying to decapitate his roommate outside the theater.

“They’re not actually my friends,” Grantaire says, because he can’t think of anything else _to_ say. “I have never in fact met any of them before in my life.”

“Why?” Enjolras asks, looking up from where his gaze had strayed to the painting propped up near Feuilly’s desk. He looks genuinely curious, curious and something else Grantaire can’t decipher.

“Why?” Grantaire echoes.

“Why did your friends want to see me?”

“They’re very interested in the ballet.”

A smile curves the edges of Enjolras’ lips. He wanders closer to Feuilly’s painting, an unfinished watercolor in greens and blues. He’s only a few feet away from Grantaire now, and that’s several hundred feet too close for the artist’s concentration.

“You’re a terrible liar,” Enjolras tells him.

“I’m normally better.”

Enjolras just turns back and watches him with amused blue eyes, and Grantaire wants to jump off the roof because the other boy knows, he fucking _knows_ and he’s going to make Grantaire admit it.

“I may have mentioned you,” he allows with a careless shrug.

_I may have talked for so long about how ridiculous your face is and the way you look when you’re dancing and that moment that was almost maybe a Moment that my best friend stuck her fingers in her ears and hummed whenever I opened my mouth and my roommate locked me out of our dorm._

“Why?” Enjolras asks. Amazingly, he sounds like he means it.

Grantaire arches one eyebrow. “Have you _seen_ you?” he asks before he can stop himself.

It’s true, of course, but it’s not the answer to Enjolras’ question. It wasn’t just the blonde curls or the angelic bone structure or the criminally well-fitted dance attire (though Grantaire is considering writing the New York Dance Company a thank-you letter).

It was the look in Enjolras’ eyes when Grantaire had made him smile. It was the music he’d chosen for his recital, and the way he’d danced to it—like he _meant_ it. Like he’d written the movement himself. Like it had been written just for him, in another life.

He’s sort of expecting Enjolras to blush, but Enjolras doesn’t. And as a bonus, he doesn’t roll his eyes and walk out, either.

“I’ve seen _you_ ,” Enjolras replies.

Grantaire tries desperately to tamp down on the hope welling up inside him, the hope that Eponine’s frenzied texts from a few days ago were right and the terrifying ballet dancer she’s been flirting with hadn’t been fucking with them.

Because fantasizing about a guy who barely knows he exists, making flirtatious remarks in a dance studio, sketching a hundred messy line drawings of that perfect mouth without ever coming near enough to taste it—those are things Grantaire is good at. He can handle Enjolras at a distance. He can handle rejection. He’s not sure if he can handle this.

“What did you say about me?” Enjolras asks, tilting his head slightly to one side to regard Grantaire.

“That I thought you were amazing,” Grantaire says, and shrugs. He doesn’t bother lying, because what’s the point, really? “And that I wanted to paint you.” He leans back against his drafting table, resting on his elbows.

“Anything else?”

Might as well go for it, Grantaire thinks. What does he have to lose? So he lets a mischievous smile twist his lips and says, “I may have suggested that I wanted to do some other things to you as well.”

Grantaire _definitely_ isn’t expecting the dancer to meet his gaze unabashedly and ask in a voice that might be innocent if it wasn’t so utterly sinful, “Like what?”

He’s standing close now, close enough to reach out and touch. But Grantaire doesn’t.

His gaze rakes over Enjolras before asking, “How long do you have?”

And then the dam bursts and Enjolras’ mouth is on his and his hands are hot on the dark-haired boy’s hips, and Grantaire’s hands push through Enjolras’ hair and he kisses Enjolras bruisingly hard. Grantaire thinks dazedly that he probably tastes like coffee (but hey, at least he doesn’t taste like whiskey).

And he’s marking that white shirt and golden hair and pale skin with charcoal fingerprints, leaving soft black smudges wherever he touches him, and he would apologize but the way Enjolras has hooked his fingers in Grantaire’s beltloops to drag him closer implies that he’s not all that upset about it.

The dancer’s lips move to Grantaire’s jawline, dragging over the two-days’ worth of stubble with a hint of teeth, dropping to suck at a spot on Grantaire’s throat which makes Grantaire’s breath stutter before he tugs almost-too-hard at that blonde hair so he can have Enjolras’ mouth on his again.

They’re in the middle of the studio, it’s not even noon, and there’s an open doorway into the hallway _right there_ , but Grantaire can’t help himself.

Because what if Enjolras changes his mind?

He doesn’t even know why the dancer has come here in the first place, what aneurysm he’s possibly suffered to bring him into the cluttered lower echelons of the art building looking for _Grantaire_ , of all people.

What if he changes his mind, and Grantaire never gets to ruck up the cotton of his white shirt with blackened fingers, never gets the chance to bite down on the curve between neck and shoulder that makes Enjolras shiver so nicely against him?

Grantaire feels insistent hands push the green flannel shirt he’s wearing off onto the floor, and then he’s just in his white undershirt and Enjolras makes a _sound_ and pushes Grantaire back against his desk.

There’s a sound of crumping paper and the sketches are going to be ruined, but nothing has ever mattered less because Enjolras is pushing one leg insistently between Grantaire’sand his breath is warm by the dark-haired boy’s ear.

His teeth graze Grantaire’s earlobe, and Grantaire’s breath is coming in shallow pants.

He has Enjolras’ t-shirt nearly off (it would be a simpler process if he would consent to let go of Enjolras for just a minute, but that idea is absolutely unthinkable) and _God_ , Enjolras’ hands are tugging insistently at the buttons of Grantaire’s jeans, and…

Eponine wolf-whistles from the threshold. The two of them don’t quite have time to break apart before everyone else appears in the doorway because Eponine, who is a terrible human being, really, gleefully doesn’t stop them.

“My _eyes_!” shrieks Bossuet, and leaps back into his boyfriend Joly, who makes an _oof_ sound and trips backwards with an armful of gold shorts and hot pink mesh, and Bahorel throws paint-stained hands up to shield his face and says loudly, “For the love of Jesus, _get a_ _fucking room_.”

“I’m all for the general having of sex, but I have to prep this canvas _now_ and I can’t when you’re having your uptown-girl-meets-boy-from-the-wrong-side-of-the-tracks moment in the middle of the studio,” is Feuilly’s annoyed contribution.

“Leave them alone, you hyenas,” Cosette’s voice comes from the back of the group, and Marius’ fainter voice: “Leave who alone? What’s happening?”

“It’s either the end of Sleepless in Seattle or the start of a porno,” Bahorel volunteers, and Marius squawks, “ _What_?”

And Feuilly replies crossly over his shoulder to Cosette that he _can’t_ leave them alone, because this painting is due _tomorrow_ and he’s already going to have to stay awake all night to finish it, and also his cigarettes are in his desk drawer.

“Is there nudity happening in this studio?” Courfeyrac calls hopefully, wedging himself into the doorway despite a protest from Jehan. “I _love_ nudity.”

Enjolras is blushing as he adjusts his shirt, but he’s grinning at Grantaire. Grantaire looks back at him, at his mussed golden hair and red mouth, and thinks he has never hated anyone as viciously as he hates all of his friends right now.

“Traitor,” Enjolras says to Combeferre, who is standing behind Eponine with his arms wrapped firmly around her waist (and that’s a new one, Grantaire thinks as he raises his eyebrows at Eponine, who grins). Combeferre only shrugs.

“Eponine,” Grantaire says through his teeth.

She sighs and kicks Courfeyrac in the shin. “Okay, okay. Come on, guys. Move out.” When Courfeyrac only persists in trying to get into the room and Feuilly complains even more loudly, Eponine talks over them. “Move or Cosette gets to _make_ you move.”

Cosette chuckles in a truly terrifying way. They move.

Enjolras has charcoal shadowing the curve of one cheekbone, and his shirt is a _mess_ with the marks from Grantaire’s own hands (and that’s not washing out, not ever, and for some reason the thought pleases Grantaire) and his hair is dusted through with black.

Grantaire thinks he should e-mail his professor later to tell her that he thinks he understands chiaroscuro, now.

“So,” Grantaire says, and he can’t keep from grinning. He bends to pick up his flannel from the ground.

“So,” Enjolras says, running fingers through his untidy hair in a hopeless attempt to make it lie flat. “Would it be presumptuous to ask you out for coffee?”

“I don’t know,” Grantaire says seriously. “That’s a little forward for me.”

Enjolras gives him a Look, and Grantaire smirks and shrugs his flannel back on and thinks that if he can make Enjolras look at him like that again, that combination of exasperated and wanting, he’ll be happy for the rest of his life. “I’ll buy,” Grantaire says. “Do you like Starbucks?”

Enjolras closes his eyes as he follows Grantaire to the door. “I’m going to pretend you didn’t just say that.”

“So we shouldn’t talk about my lifelong rewards card?” Grantaire asks with wide-eyed innocence.

“I regret kissing you. I take it back.”

“It’s great, all of the baristas know my order.”

Enjolras looks pained. “Stop talking.”

Grantaire’s smile is wicked as he glances back at the other boy. “Make me.”

So Enjolras does.


End file.
